Armchair Linguistics: Tranströmer

I have a book of Tranströmer, untranslated. I got it in the mail. I thought, this should be interesting. I thought, why not? So here comes one. Oh, and let me know if something doesn’t, erm, make sense.

Prelude, from “17 Poems”

Waking up is a skydive from dreaming.

Free from a choking whirl sinks

the traveler, toward the morning’s green zone.

Things flame up. He recognizes- from the

trilling lark’s vantage – the noble systems of treeroots,

their underground swaying lamps. But above ground

there is- in a tropical flood – greenness, with

lifted arms, listening

to the rhythm of an invisible pump. And he

sinks towards the summer, slipping down 

into its bright craters, down

through shafts of greendamp ages

trembling under the sun’s turbine. So it is halted

this vertical journey through the moment and the wings

spread out to the osprey’s perch over rushing water.

The Bronze Age Trumpet’s

outcast tone

hangs over the abyss.

 

In the day’s first hours consciousness understands the world

just as the hand grips a sunwarmed stone.

The traveler stands beneath the tree. Shall,

after the crash through the whirl of death,

a great light unfold over his head?

 

………………………………………………………………..

 

 Preludium

 

Uppvaknandet är ett fallskärmshopp från drömmen.

Fri från den kvävande virveln sjunker

resenären mot morgonens gröna zon.

Tingen flammar upp. Han förnimmer – i dallrande lärkans

position – de mäktiga trädrotsystemens

underjordiskt svängande lampor. Men ovan jord

står – i tropiskt flöde – grönskan, med

lyftade armar, lyssnande

till rytmen från ett osynligt pumpverk. Och han

sjunkder mot sommaren, firas ned

i dess bländade krater, ned

genom schakt av grönfuktiga åldrar

skälvande under solturbinen. Så hejdas

denna lodräta färd genom ögonblicket och vingarna breddas

till fiskgjusens vila över ett strömmande vatten.

Bronsålderslurns

fredlösa ton

hänger över det bottenlösa.

 

I dagens första timmar kan medvetandet omfatta världen

som handen griper en solvarm sten.

Resenärn står under trädet. Skall,

efter störtningen genom dödens virvel,

ett stort ljus vecklas ut över hans huvud.

Okejdå, Fastlagsbullar

varning: may contain svengelska, nostalgi, and poor grammar

För två sedan (var det sååå länge sedan?!) kom jag på att det vore kul att översätta Semlor receptet till engelska, eftersom jag lyckade inte hitta en bra och enkel version på nättet. Jag och några kompisar hade nyss lagat hembakat semlor och så tog jag receptet vi hade använt och skissade ut det så bra som jag kunde på amerikansk engelska. Det var faktist första riktiga ‘sv–>en’ översättningen jag hade försökt.*

Nyfiken? Hittar du receptet här

Nu har två år gått förbi: jag bor såklart inte längre i Sverige och har själv inte ens ätit en semla i år… men ändå är detta recept som jag översatte i 2010 bloggens mest besökta inlägg…of all time.  Jag får kolla statistiken och det står att 68 hungriga och semla-på-engelska-sökande själar har tittat på just detta inlägg under de senaste dagar! Det kanske inte verkar vara så mycket egentligen, men, trust me, 68 personer räknar som massor när det gäller den här liten, liten blogg.

Vad jag blir glad när jag ser att så mycket folk kollar receptet och antagligen bakar sina egna semlor, ändå på engelska! Det kan tyda bara att det är dags resa tillbaka i tiden och baka lite kalifornienska semlor här hemma. Tyvärr är det inte lätt att hitta mandelmassa i USA…men man kan väl försöka!

……………………………………….

Translation: It’s Fat Tuesday, so bake some Semlor y’all.

Curious: Find you the recipe here

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*Och så firar jag första översättningen med att lägga upp första inlägget skrivit nästan helt på svenska. Tänkte köra nåt nytt bara, och det högst troligen kommer inte hända igen Rätta mitt språk om ni vill! Jag var aldrig duktig på grammatiken…

tout-terrain, tout-puissant

He’s your prototypical cycling dude de un certain âge: His head is shaved or balding or more probably both, he’s wearing neon framed sunglasses and if I could see his calves I’m sure they would leave me with no doubts that he could destroy me up a hill on any given day. He is of course, the dude standing behind the table at the Specialized demo I’ve just rolled up to. And, naturally, I’ve just signed my life away for the sake of riding bicycles.

“Bring her back in an hour and try another one,” he smiles and extends a 2012 Specialized Epic 29er in my direction. I’ve never really even ridden a full suspension bike before, let alone a top-of-the-line, brand new, perfectly maintained one. He doesn’t know it, but I’m fighting back tears of joy.

*****************************

Holy Moses, this bike is eating the trail for breakfast. My internal monologue becomes fixated that phrase: Eating the trail for breakfast. Eating the trail for breakfast. I keep repeating it with each turn of the crank.  I’m climbing a fireroad named BFI. I’m not sure what the letters stand for, but after a few minutes I can hazard a guess: Big F***ing Incline. My heart is exploding, but it hardly matters because this bike climbs like a hardtail and still manages to, yes, eat the trail for breakfast. En breve: it climbs with hardtail efficiency, but, ahem, better.

At (what I thought was) the top of the climb I turn around to greet the Pacific, glimmering and vast, two blues meeting, the horizon. California weather so flawless sometimes, it truly is almost disgusting. A guy on a Santa Cruz downhill bike about to head down the trail finds it in his heart to yell, “You’re outrageous!” as he passes by; Apparently this isn’t the normal way up. But no, it’s not me that’s outrageous, I want to yell back, it’s this bike, you see….the bike climbed it I didn’t climb it at all!

Next up: single track and downhill. I am shocked (that was indeed a pun) to find that I am riding, or more accurately, the bike is riding up and down things that would have knocked me off of my ol’ Marin: Rocks, berms, switchbacks, washboard fireroads. Emboldened by the existence of a rear shock and a functioning set of brakes, I come to the conclusion that yes, a bike like this would be an absolute game changer. Is it really supposed to be this much fun? Really? Are you sure this isn’t cheating?

*****************

I ended up trying an Epic and a Safire (read: spending about 2.5 hours test riding bikes waaaaay outside of my price range. Shhh, don’t tell the sales guys.) Survey says: Epic > Safire.

eftersmak, eftertänk

I have two memories, several years apart, that I have been visiting lately. I’m playing them over and flipping back and forth and in between, for whatever reason, listening to them on repeat. They are really nothing remarkable. But as with music, singing or playing aloud is typically the cure for such common insanity. So here goes.

1.

I sat on the curb outside of my school; it rained but it was not cold, or at the least I don’t remember it being cold. I don’t remember even being wet though surely, I was. I do remember the dull ache in my legs, fourteen being about the age that our bodies decide to remind us after exercise, that we are in fact only human. A small stream was coalescing in the gutter behind my heels. I watched for a long time, tributaries formed and joined with the others, neat planar tides folded into one another in the shape of the Nile River Delta. A boxy black car, no one I knew, pulled up in front of where I sat. When it stopped, the red from the breaklights cast my little river and the skin on my ankles en rouge—an image I haven’t forgotten. This is beauty, I remember thinking. It is not always glad, I remember thinking. And it is everywhere, all the time; it is as inescapable as horror. Here, even.

2.

People think of nature as trees and streams and mountains, she said. Really, nature is everything around us. She bent low, prayer-like, and stretched her arms out over the table we were sitting around: a long and gleaming slab of pine. This table, she said, is nature; it was after all, once, a tree. I don’t remember the faces the students in the class at that moment. They may as well have been a cabinet of ghosts: All in collusion against me to remain speechless, lifeless and impenetrable but nonetheless present. I do remember the professor’s face, motionless. Her chin was suspended just grazing the tabletop and her uplooking eyes were engorged behind the necessary glasses. The table seemed itself, the most living thing in the room and it pulsed bright yellow; this being one of those times when the small oscillations of everything in the world, in my immediate nature, just barely registers beneath the point of my pencil.

……………………………

In case you were wondering: I’m posting a lot more often these days because my current job title is “Cat Babysitter.” Which means I have time.

Route Report: Laguna Loop

Forgive me, but: this post only applies to cyclists living in the Orange County area, a subset of the population which I realize does not typically coincide with the subset of the population reading this blog. However, on the off chance that another soul wandering this land of infinite good weather and infinite freeways on two wheels comes across this site, I want to spare them the pains of figuring this out.

It seems sort of like an obvious route, but honestly, it took me about a month to trailblaze a variation of it that a) is longer than 20 km b) includes decent climbing and c) does not dead end onto any major freeways.

Start and end point is the Back Bay Parking lot, on University and Irvine Ave.

View Larger Map

Words of advice:

1. Be careful on Laguna Canyon Road. It is a popular road for cycling, but honestly, it is heavily trafficked and the shoulder is narrow and poorly maintained; sometimes it is even obstructed with washed out sediment and/or construction barricades. Also, it’s often windy.

2. At the bottom of Laguna Canyon, stay to the right and take the short and steep detour up Cliff. It is very worth it for the ocean view, but most of all for the evasion of the horrendous PCH/Laguna Canyon intersection.

3. When riding on PCH through Laguna or CDM, just chill out, ride slowly, and pay attention. As far as I can tell, there is not a time of day during which these areas are not crowded. You will be riding between a line of parked cars and a line of moving cars, so getting “doored” is a very real thing to worry about.

4. Enjoy the Newport Coast climb into Kobe Bryant’s neighborhood, the next climb (up Ridge Park) is steeper!

5. Once you’ve summitted Ridge Park, turn around, and begin to descend: Stay alert to cars! First time I went down this, I was so entranced by having discovered such a wonderful, fast, singing-at-the-top-of-your-lungs, the-road-is-ALL-MINE descent that I failed to notice the Land Rover behind me until he honked and sped angrily by. Drivers here are not necessarily friendly, and are not used to cyclists.

6. Just use the crosswalks at MacArthur and San Joaquin. It’s not worth the risk.

So, total distance traveled is about 58 km according to my bike computer, 35 miles according to Google maps, which remarkably is pretty much the same distance when you take into consideration the arbitrary margin for error that I just magically came up with.

Meanwhile, in SoCal….

My dog received a Valentines Day card. “From” the neighbors’ dog. I am dead serious. Does anyone else find that, just in the least bit, silly? I mean, I love animals, but… hmm.

Given, this is Suburban California, the land where people go so far as to hold birthday parties for their pets. Not to mention the fact that my dog is, indeed, a rather dashing specimen:

So, long story short: do you know why I hate myself right now?

I just made a card to give back to the neighbors’ dog. Yes, yes I really did. Don’t look at me like that.

When in Rome, folks. When in Rome.

Happy

Day, everyone. From my dog.

Ride Report: El Moro Highlights

“Seriously, you’re out here tearing it up on a fifteen year old bike?” He asks in disbelief. It’s not the first time I’ve rolled up to a circle of middle aged dudes for a group ride. But it’s the first time I’ve done it on a mountain bike, and first time I’ve done it in Orange County. And geez, these middle aged dudes seem cool but they all have really nice bikes. A brand new Stumpy, a Santa Cruz with shiny blue rims… none of them are hardtails and none of them are more than a year old. I don’t think they think I’m serious.

“Ahem, seventeen,” I respond. I’m not sure why I feel the need to correct him. “Seventeen years. It was top of the line in 1995, I’m telling you.” Of course, what I really want to say is: My bike is about as old as your kids. I bite my lip and look down at the good ol’ Marin with pink riser bars, Mon cher.

“And, it only cost me $248,” I say, smugly.

“Your entire bike costs less than my seatpost!” He’s wearing sunglasses, so I have to imagine his eyes getting bigger. I just smile. Ha, trust me, buddy, I realize that. He goes on, without (I swear!) an ounce of sarcasm:

“It’s OK, once you make your millions in physics, you’ll get a sweet new bike, right?” I just keep smiling and nodding, and this time, I feel no need to correct him.

………………………………………………………………….

After a quick fire road up and down, we veer off onto an overgrown single track named “Lizard” as I am informed. Lizard is a technical little beast with a fair share of twists and turns, a few erosionally challenged sections, one hike a bike, and even a little bit of slickrock (!). Aside from being a little slower than the dudes and having my foot fall out of my shoe once (yeah) I make it down and even manage to have a little fun.

One Lizard is out of the way, we start to climb. Miraculously, I start to pass people. Vive le Hardtail! When we reach the top of a long uphillish rolling section, I stop and take off my jacket and one of the guys rolls up behind me.

“Hey, you can really climb! You’re a climber, eh?” He says enthusiastically.

Wait, what? Me? Climber? Have I entered a parallel universe?

………………………………………………………

How come I never knew this was here?  I keep asking myself as we wind trough the drizzly, rainbow hued chaparral, up and down switchbacks that give tamarancho a run for its money, into shaded thickets and out again, brushing the edge of Laguna Canyon, under the 73 freeway and up to a gloriously long fireroad climb cresting with the Pacific on the other side. El Moro, the “Irvine Side,” where have you been all of my life?

……………………………………………………

“Whoa…a girl!” yells a mountain biker on the trail below me as he waits diligently for our group to clamber down an unrideable rock face.

Honestly, I’m used to being in the minority here. What I’m not used to is being pointed out like some kind of rare fauna. All at once, it finally hits me: I haven’t seen another girl on a bike all day. In the Bay Area, sure there are still fewer female mtb’ers than male ones, but at least they exist. And, to boot, a lot of them are really, really good. Orange County ladies must be more into tennis, or something. Immediately I feel a little inadequate as the sole representative of my sex on the mountain. If only S. or J. or even M. (the great and all powerful) were here, I think, then they’d see a girl who can really ride!

“Show these cocky guys who’s boss!” yells the guy at the bottom.

“Not on this stuff,” I yell back as I get off my bike, hoist it over my shoulder, and step carefully down the rock. I am mercifully immune to doing stupid stuff for the sake of dumb pride. It must be a girl thing.

……………………………………………

In all, easily, it was the most fun I’ve had on my mountain bike in a long time. See you next weekend, dudes, I had a blast!

Où est le fromage?

I’m not quite sure why I find this so ridiculously hilarious. Possibly it’s the author’s gushing (oozing?) enthusiasm for cheese, something I find delicious but otherwise mundane. Possibly it’s the fact that his descriptions of cheese often teeter dangerously on the edge of, well, I don’t know what.  Possibly it’s the necessary inclusion of the word ‘cheese’ in every other sentence. At any rate, it is a book of Bible-thickness entitled Cheese Primer, written by Steven Jenkins,  “The first American to be awarded France’s prestigious Chevalier du Taste-Fromage,” and it recently found its way into my hands.  What is possibly most comedic of all, however, is the fact that I, in this interim stage of semi-unemployment, have somehow managed to convince myself that it is worthwhile to siphon out the best quotes from the aforementioned cheese book and blog about them. Ahem, we shall begin with Le France:

“France, for me, is a glorious wonder. But what astounds me most–French history, custom, and style aside–are the cheeses. I have worked with French cheeses virtually every day for the last 20 years. I coddle and caress them, occasionally inadvertently abuse them, but mostly, I am in awe of them.”

Dude, Puuh–leease. Is it just me or does his relationship with French cheese seem mildly inappropriate?  And then there’s Italy:

“But when it comes to cheeses, no one is ore adulatory and protective than the Italians, who are, I must add, equally dismissive about all cheese that is not Italian.”

Personally, I just love how close the word ‘adulatory’ is to ‘adultery.’

Switzerland is priceless:

“Switzerland’s cheeses are big, hard-rinded, rugged ones that are much less fragile. Their physical configuration matches the topography of the mountainous area where they originate. The most famous–Emmental and Gruyére–are dense textured and massive in size, so they must be hewn into smaller segements with double-handled knives. These sturdy cheeses evolved to meet the need dictated by the weater (long, cold winters*) and terrain (remote pastures high in the Alps).”

Of course, I had to read the section on Gruyere. This cheese was after all, much to my waistline’s dismay, probably my primary source of protein last summer.

“Gruyere (grew-YAIR or gree-AIR) hails from the canton of Fribourg, an area north and east of Lake Geneva…the longer I am in the business the more I realize the importance of Gruyére and the more forcefully I am stuck by it’s supremacy, it’s majesty.”

Vive le Gruyére! Forcefully majestic, indeed.

And then there’s sodden Merry ol’ Britain….

The British Isles are a dairy wonderland of common climate, temperature, elevation, and pasturages.”

While French and Italian cheeses take up well near half the book, Scandinavian & Germanic Cheeses are wedged together in a shorter section about less fine products. On Scandi varieties:

“As a group, these cheeses are simple and economical…like most factory-produced cheeses, their quality is constant, varying little from batch to batch–the result of modern facilities and scientific technology, much of which is actually imported from the US.”

This is hilarious because it quite nearly encompasses the general stereotype about everything Scandinavian.** Unfortunate, really.

Germanic stoicism at its cheesiest:

“German cheeses, while standing tall in aroma and flavor intensity, fall short when it comes to depth and nuance….Strong German and Austrian cheeses are often only that–strong“

And the reviews get only worse from there, on Greece and the Balkans:

“[The Balkan countries] offer little of the cheese variety and romance of Western Europe….Were it not for Feta, this area wouldn’t figure on the cheese front at all, except in the not inconsiderable ethnic markets.”

You may have thought that was harsh, but truly, it’s our*** friendly neighbor to the north that gets no love from Jenkins. Canada warrants a mere two pages in his thick cheese-bible, and the section opens with the fatalistic proclamation:

‘Though one would expect that a country as big as Canada would be home to a great many cheesemaking facilities and a prodigious quantity of cheese, it is not. Curiously, Canadians are not big consumers of cheese. I find that baffling.”

I find this entire book baffling.

——————————–

*Long winters, which I am currently (fortunately?) missing. 21 C in February, Heck Yes California.

**Ok, so Skandinavia: I did read the Sweden section, which was very short and consisted of two cheeses I had never heard of. I therefore will submit to Mr. Jenkins my suggestion for the addition of Prästost to the list.

Prästost

Prästost, like nearly every other cheese in Sweden, is a white cheese with small holes in it. It is tolerable on crisp bread or skorpor, especially if you lather on the butter first and/or top with fish eggs in paste form, herring, or jam. The name Prästost, means “Priest Cheese” and comes from a time long ago when the people of a small village had no money to pay the tithe to the Priest, and instead paid in cheese. It is this story, and the lack of anything better, which makes Prästost the best common cheese in Sweden. If you are in the US, and if you are lucky, it might be available in an IKEA near you. 

***His section on American cheeses is pretty interesting and comprehensive, though notably less hilarious than his representations of European countries.  The gist is: most American cheeses are milder, mass-produced copies of their European originals. Regrettably (or…mercifully), he makes no mention of Cheezwhiz.

Ride Reports: OC mountainbiking

So, apparently I go on road rides on my mountain bike now. Anywho…here goes.

Oh my God, I think. I see them ahead, a couple on Boyfriend & Me matching Felt road bikes, not to mention wearing semi matching Felt kits. Really folks, really? I’m on my trusty (weeeell, sort of) Marin team Edition from 1995 with pink handlebars, and I’m passing them on the dirt path that is next to the sidewalk. I feel momentarily badass.

I never thought I’d say this, but: thank God for Orange County. Here at least I can still beat *some* people. I am after all a Collegiate Womens’ A mountain biker* and we all know that “beating people is fun.” A big thanks for the confidence booster, OC.

Sadly, Mountain bikes aren’t geared like road bikes and I spin out on the downhill as Boyfriend & Me whizz by. Don’t worry, I caught them on the flats.

When I reach Castaways, a short but steep hill that used to make me feel like I was going to vomit during high school volleyball workouts (or as I liked to call them, ‘torture’) I discover that really, it’s not that bad. In momentary triumph, I decide to do some intervals on it, this of course being nothing short of miraculous considering that nowadays I’m likely to not climb anything more than once if I don’t have to on the grounds that such activities are “Sisyphean.”

Right after my third interval, Boyfriend & Me finally catch up. I resist the urge to yell over my shoulder: “Hey I did this three times! and I’m gonna do it again.” Probably a smart move.

Later on, along a pedestrian path, I weave in and out of elderly couples, joggers and small, hairy dogs. My front break is really squeaky, so every time I try and slow down a little bit, it sounds like I’m coming to a screeching halt. People walking their unruly dogs look at me apologetically. I start to feel bad too, until suddenly, a teenager on a hybrid with disc brakes and…time trial bars?…. appears. He’s going pretty fast and frighting many grandmas and small, hairy dogs. I feel like much less of a menace.

But really, time trial bars? Whhaaat?

About a mile from my house my front wheel starts resisting turns. Yup, it’s flatting. A slow leak. I pull off to the side and pump it up as unsympathetic passerby pretend not to notice me.

Soon I’m back on the bike and I’m almost home. I see woman walking along the path wearing ike running shorts and really white tennis shoes. She must be on a bluetooth or something, because she’s talking, although as I ride up behind her I can only see the back of her head. Her ponytail bounces up and down. As I pass, I hear only a snippet of her conversation: “I’m a big girl with tiny panties…”

I reapeat: Whhaaat?

Strange things in this County of Orange. Straaange things.

………………….

*Ha, funny story, which I will save for later.

 

Sunshine & Noir & Wind

Even the trees are confused; their branches already laden, gilded in midwinter blossoms. Along this street they are lined like misplaced and motionless images from some distant, idyllic spring. I can hardly stand to be in the car, the air is hot and stale with a slight electric quality. When I open the door to the house, my dog barks for no reason. As the sun sets I hear sirens and I expect maybe the grass in the morning will be littered with scraps of what-have-you, detached palm fronds….

…………………………………………………..

Pause. Right there, I was about to describe the Santa Ana Winds. You see, my dear readership comprising of almost exclusively not Southern Californians, there are four types of distinguishable weather in Southern California: Sun, Earthquake Weather, Brush Fires, and Santa Ana Wind. I was about to tell you about these here Santa Anas we’ve been having, when I remembered that Joan Didion did it better in 1965. I do defer to Ms. Didion:

“There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension. What it means is that tonight a Santa Ana will begin to blow, a hot wind from the northeast whining down through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes, blowing up sand storms out along Route 66, drying the hills and the nerves to flash point. For a few days now we will see smoke back in the canyons, and hear sirens in the night. I have neither heard nor read that a Santa Ana is due, but I know it, and almost everyone I have seen today knows it too. We know it because we feel it. The baby frets. The maid sulks. I rekindle a waning argument with the telephone company, then cut my losses and lie down, given over to whatever it is in the air. To live with the Santa Ana is to accept, consciously or unconsciously, a deeply mechanistic view of human behavior.”

California, the mythic and the bizarre!

………………………………………………………..

What this all apparently leads to for me at least, the lesson I was destined to learn this time via the prophetic and serendipitous nature of the hyperlink, is this: as I haphazardly googled my heart out in order to find a decent excerpt from Didion’s essay, I also happened upon a comment left by some bygone commenter on some bygone website…

“… (Didion) is such a gifted descriptive writer that she often can’t resist the temptation to wrap her otherwise keen observations with some Chandleresque hyperbole, just to see how the language turns out. It’s delightful to read, and leaves lasting impressions on your brain, but many of the impressions are, regrettably, not true…”

Have you ever heard a voice speaking through the void of years past and the awkward permanency of the internet and felt that it might be speaking, well, quite possibly directly at you? Hmph. It’s an odd feeling, really.

I’ve gotta go buckle down the hatches, the winds they are a’coming. Hold onto your Botox, SoCal.